


Trademarked-Queer

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (not toward anyone but Here Be Transphobes), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Conference, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Get-Together Fic, Grantaire is Meme Queen Supreme, Grantaire pov, Jeremy's Thirsty Thursday, Marsha P Johnson is simply a queen, Rule 63, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Transphobes Get Punched, gratuitous greco-roman references, instances of transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Show up, look nice, don’t say anything.Grantaire had informed Enjolras when the leader had asked her to fill in at the conference that it was an awfully tall order for someone of her general disposition, but she also didn’t need to be told that she was the last of a long list of options: the grateful sigh that had escaped the blonde had been confirmation enough.Warnings:transphobic attitudes, misgendering of a historical queer icon, alcohol as a coping mechanism (not graphic), allusion to sexual activity (not graphic)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 143





	Trademarked-Queer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsallaboutme11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutme11/gifts).



> ItsAllAboutMe11 was the winner of my fic in the [Bishop Myriel Charity Auction](http://bishopmyrielfundraiser.tumblr.com) back in December and requested Rule 63 ExR with a happy ending. :D I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> Lots of love and thanks, as always, to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for beta-reading and telling me I'm funny. <3

Grantaire isn’t panicking, but She’s Panicking. "What do you mean, _‘there’s only one bed’?”_

Ever the more societally acceptable of the two of them, she watches as Enjolras plasters a smile on her face. “Please excuse my colleague, it’s been an extremely long trip.” It was four hours, but it’s nice to see that Enjolras is learning to lie when it suits them, at least. “I do believe that conference attendees were guaranteed double-bed suites?”

“I am sorry, Ma’am,” the person at the counter repeats, sounding slightly more heartfelt this time, “but there was a mix-up with the event, and their bookings were swapped: all of our two-bed suites have already been claimed.”

“Is there any way we can upgrade? I’m willing to pay extra.” The sting of Enjolras’s request might hurt more if Grantaire wasn’t desperately grasping at it herself. 

The clerk is probably doing exactly what Grantaire used to do when she did shifts at the hotel and had difficult customers: the mouse jiggles a little, they frown at the screen, and— “No, I’m sorry, we really are all booked up.”

Fuck. 

“Well, thank you anyway,” says Enjolras apologetically, smiling that smile that Grantaire only knows is disingenuous because she’s seen the blonde’s true thousand-watt glory.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if anything opens up,” they tell her, earnest enough that Grantaire can almost believe it.

Ever the lady, Grantaire contains her huff until they are in the privacy of the elevator. “That’s some bullshit.”

“That’s what’s available,” Enjolras states matter-of-factly, already typing something rapidly into her phone, and _right,_ this isn’t exactly the blonde’s first concession with this conference.

_Show up, look nice, don’t say anything._

Grantaire had informed Enjolras when the leader had asked her to fill in for Courfeyrac that it was an awfully tall order for someone of her general disposition, but she also didn’t need to be told that she was likely the last of a long list of options: the grateful sigh that had escaped the blonde had been confirmation enough.

The rest of the elevator ride passes in silence, as does their walk to what Grantaire is pretty certain is the other side of the Goddamned building, but whatever: it’s not like she had been under the impression that Enjolras would suddenly want to be friends with her just because she was doing the leader a favor. If anything, this is probably recompense for thousands of wasted hours in meetings and the proceeding migraines over the past decade.

 _Decade._ The word turns over in Grantaire’s head as Enjolras fiddles with the keycard to get into their room. Have they really known each other for so long? They’d met in university, and they’re bumping up against thirty now, so she supposes it must be, or damned close. Admittedly, she doesn’t remember many of those misguided years, fumbling with her mental health and identity and dealing with both via an intense substance abuse problem. She’s since gotten her shit together—almost, anyway. After all, she is here because Enjolras had said ‘jump’ and she’d asked how high. Some things don’t change. 

The door opens, and Grantaire immediately sets to work laying out her makeup and meds in the bathroom while Enjolras presumably does Something in the main room. Maybe if Grantaire ignores the bed situation it’ll go away?

It _is_ a nice hotel: in case the embossed robes weren’t indication enough, the shower is one of those fancy ones she has only ever seen online, and the toilet paper is _triple-ply._ If she were here with anyone else, she would already be excitedly informing them of her findings. However, she is here with Enjolras, and Grantaire isn’t fool enough to think that the other woman would be interested in such trivialities. 

When she re-enters the main room, she is forced to come to terms with the fact that the clerk at the front desk had not had a pleasant surprise in store for them: there is one queen-sized bed in the middle of the room, impossible to miss. The other amenities fall away as Grantaire’s eyes find Enjolras where she is splayed across one side of the bed, golden hair cascading out behind her like some cliché artist’s rendition of a modernday halo where she lays starfished with her eyes shut, shoes and socks already having been shucked haphazardly to the floor. Her jacket must have been removed when she got in, and her tank top is bunched at her waist just high enough to expose a flash of hipbone.

It is in Grantaire’s best interest to divert her attention to Literally Anything Else.

“So,” Grantaire coughs, dropping her duffle beside the bed and hanging up the outfits she’d brought in the complementary closet. “You taking the window-side then?”

The blonde jerks up, catching herself on her elbows and shifting the hem of her shirt a criminal inch higher. “No! I mean, I don’t have to.”

A chuckle pushes its way out of Grantaire: it’s not often that she has the opportunity to see Enjolras so uncomposed. “No need to get your panties in a twist: I am allergic to the sun before 10. Window side’s yours.”

“The shades are going to be closed.”

“And what? Catch me in your own personal game of Eros and Psyche, where I play the unwitting spirit? Though you would play a much more beguiling Eros, I must say, and you have awayed me to this location in the first place—”

“Fine, I’ll take the window side.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” winks Grantaire. It’s good that she’d been stopped: who knows what sort of bullshit she might have spout otherwise, and on the first evening of three.

Three nights. Fucking _Tyche._

The car ride here had gone well enough: Enjolras had passed out in the passenger seat approximately five minutes into the journey, leaving Grantaire to drive the next several hours with Spotify as companion and icing out the very concerns which seize her now. Since getting Basically Sober™, she and Enjolras can now handle each other for nearly hours at a time. They’ve even done overnight trips in similar vicinities of one another, Grantaire allowing herself the privileges of being Slightly Less Sober™ and having A FuckLot of Space™ to get through them. Three days of actually having to be near Enjolras and interacting with her sheer optimism and faith and conviction and _perfection?_

Nope, this is not going to work out.

Her phone says it’s nearly six already, which sounds like the perfect time to Fuck Off Indefinitely™. “Did they give us a spare?” she asks, indicating toward the keycard on the bed.

“Oh, um, yeah. Next to the TV.” Enjolras is now rolled onto her front, a sight that is going to make Grantaire weep tears of sexual frustration if she has to look at it much longer—Gods forbid she glimpse that fatal form of Eros under guise of night. A solution for their unfortunate sleeping situation needs to be found, and fast. “Will you be back for dinner?”

No. “Probably not.” 

“Should I wait up for you?”

 _Definitely_ no. “Probably not.”

“Mkay. Well, breakfast starts at seven, and the opening remarks are at 7:30, so make sure you get back in time to rest up.”

The domesticity is gonna kill her. “Kay. Cool. Later.”

Her doctor says alcohol is more dangerous for her body since Grantaire’s started her meds, but she can have a little sometimes. As a treat.

Which is exactly why she’s hiding out in the parking lot at quarter to midnight: both sober Grantaire and schwasted Grantaire had failed in coming up with an alternative sleeping accommodation. Driving four hours now would be irresponsible at best, and having to wake at 3 to get to this bitch on time might kill her. Likewise, she has too many monthly expenses and bills and other various monetary goals to be able to afford her own hotel room—even their nonexistent upgrade had been impingent on Enjolras paying for it. 

Sleeping next to Enjolras, having to exist close enough to her to know what her shampoo smells like and whatever her morning and nightly routines are, might also actually kill Grantaire. Like, waking at 3 in the morning to drive here would too, but in a different way. Multiple deaths. Not the small, good kind either—the big deaths that kill for real. 

But maybe, if she had a really good friend… 

“You know I go to sleep at 10, this had better be good.”

“Hey Éponine,” Grantaire grins into her phone. She knows she sounds sloppy, but she’s talking with her best friend, so it’s allowed. _As a treat._ “Remember when you had a crush on,” she pauses, catching her breath before announcing to the parking lot at large, _“MARIUS PONT-MERCYYYYYY?”_

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line before Éponine speaks again. “What did you do?”

“I have to share a bed with Enjolras. For three nights.”

“Fuck.” Anyone else would have immediately written the explanation off without realizing its full implications, which is why she loves Éponine. “Where are you?” Grantaire tells her and faces a scoff in response. “No.”

Sliding down against a column, Grantaire sighs. “Was worth a shot.”

“If anyone would have been down to drive to fuck-all to get you, it would have been me.”

“Yeah, I know,” she smiles dopily. “Hey, hey, Ép, you know?”

“I don’t.”

“You’re the best.”

“I am.”

“Like, if you and and Aphrodite and Athena anddddd Hera got into a contest right now, even without bribing him, that twink bitch Paris would choose you.”

“Thank you R.”

“You deserve all of the golden apples, Ép.”

“I do.”

“If you have any races for your hand in marriage, you, you…are gonna be great.”

“Okay.”

“Because of the apples, Ép.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Épples.”

“Bye.”

“Bye,” Grantaire tells the dial tone before belatedly closing the call app. She stares at the screen a beat, followed by another: she has a match on tinder.

It’s been a while: she isn’t as desperate as she was in her collegiate days, and since then it’s become more convenient for everyone involved for her to attempt an actual relationship than one-night stands, but whoever this person is read her profile and still swiped right.

_Don’t have to share a bed with Enjolras if I’m sharing with someone else._

—-

Grantaire is vaguely aware of an alarm going off. It isn’t hers, but it is An alarm, and it is Annoying As Fuck™.

It doesn’t take long for her hand to slap out at her own phone to identify that it is 7:05, that her phone is on 13%, and that the reason she cannot hear her own alarm is because she slept through all three of them: fair, since she also didn’t get to sleep until well-after two in the morning following Several™ more drinks. 

Her bedmate for the night, a suit of some sorts named Jeremy, is still snoring blissfully through the brain-blitzing cacophony filling the room. Were she slightly less shameless and also not exactly aware of how much shit she is in right now, she might think to wake him: as is, it is probably better for both of them if she sneaks out now.

By the time she has mostly put herself together and found her and Enjolras’s room, it is already 7:15. She’d suspected—hoped against hope, dreamed against dream—that Enjolras would be One of Those Bitches™ who leaves at 6:55 to arrive at the 7 o’clock breakfast, but unfortunately she is the type to leave at 7:15 for a 7:30 opening ceremony. Fucking _mint._

At least Grantaire hadn’t lost her keycard in the events of the previous night, however much she must have lost her common sense: Enjolras is still straightening out and tugging at the collar of her blazer in the room’s mirror when Grantaire rolls in, suddenly very aware that if she isn’t feeling the pangs of a hangover yet she is probably still drunk. Her clothes are in the closet, but diving into the bathroom to shower off the night and begin putting on her war paint to face the day seems significantly preferable to having to face Enjolras in this state.

“We’re starting in fifteen,” the blonde warns dubiously from outside the door. 

Grantaire really should be undressing already, but something about doing so while Enjolras is so physically near and actively speaking with her seems dirty. “I know!” she calls, throwing on the hot water.

“Okay, see you soon…”

“Yup!” The bathroom is already growing steamy, and exhaustion is finally beginning to hit, but the ceremony’s in fifteen minutes, and Grantaire had promised she’d fill a chair and be quiet. Well, if nothing else, shutting up should be her specialty today.

In the end, Grantaire is only fifteen minutes late. Given everything she had to do in the space of that thirty minutes plus the fact that she spent an indefinite amount of time staring blankly at the shower wall, she should be hailed as a hero when she finally rolls in.

It’s not that she doesn’t know what she must look like when she pulls up a chair beside Enjolras: her hair is still wet, curls wild and significantly less styled than usual; her heels are held in one hand, a plate of breakfast sausages and grilled bell peppers in the other; a scarf has been hastily wrapped around her neck to cover telltale hickeys; and to top it all off, she is wearing sunglasses indoors before 8AM. The woman is glaring and furious—not glaring at Grantaire, of course, but she knows the look. Jaw set, hands clenched, eyebrows furrowed: Enjolras is mad at someone, and it certainly isn’t the speaker expounding on the virtues of intersectionality within the queer community.

“Where were you last night?” Enjolras hisses out of the corner of her mouth.

And yes, Grantaire obviously feels guilty, but she also isn’t about to give into Enjolras’s petty anger tactics before Grantaire has even officially fucked up. “Out.”

“Which entails?”

An undignified snort rises from her, for which her headache pays dearly. _Water,_ Grantaire realizes too late. _I forgot the motherfucking water._ “Wouldn’t you like to know, Weatherboy?”

Enjolras’s frown deepens, and even as Grantaire spears a pepper, the smell of which turns her stomach, she knows that she is going to pay dearly for it in the near future.

‘Near future’ evidently being ten minutes later on the way to their first session. 

“Are you serious—”

“Hey,” Grantaire yelps, covering her eyes to protect from the glare of the lights as her other hand flails wildly in search of the sunglasses Enjolras has yanked from her face. 

“You had one job—”

“I have _three_ jobs,” Grantaire corrects, snatching the sunglasses back. “I have showed up, I look nice,” -ish, “and I don’t intend to say anything, as per orders.”

Enjolras’s mouth purses, eyes narrowing on Grantaire. _It’s been a while,_ Grantaire muses distantly. “You’d better shape up and be on your best behavior for this.”

“Yikes,” intones Grantaire flatly, throwing her hands up. “I’ll keep it in mind, _Mom.”_

As it turns out, merely showing up and remaining silent is not technically what is strictly expected at this conference. The first thing they do in their starting session is some ridiculous get-to-know-you schtick to introduce themselves and their respective organizations. A quick glare from Enjolras indicates that Grantaire is under no circumstances to volunteer any of her own personal feelings, which is fine by her: at this point, her primary focus is on appearing composed enough that no one else is aware that she is currently balancing on the very delicate edge of nausea.

She’s not entirely sure what follows: people talk, definitely, but it’s taking everything in her not to fall asleep, a task at which she is fairly certain she fails several times if the sudden jumps in discussion and sharp jabs of Enjolras’s elbow into her ribs are any sort of indication. 

She already has designs to sleep through their hour-long lunch break when Enjolras’s icy grip clasps around Grantaire’s wrist, pulling her back to her seat. “I don’t know what has gotten into you—”

_Four vodka cranberries, a half bottle of Hennessey, and some tequila._

“—but I think it’d be best for both of us if you do not return this afternoon.” Enjolras’s mouth is in a firm line, corners turned downward. “Sleep this off, we’ll talk this evening.”

A nervous bubble of laughter pushes out from Grantaire’s chest as bleary panic seizes her. She yanks her wrist back from Enjolras’s grasp, trying to rub the memory of the grip away. “Ooh, sorry, can’t. I have plans.” She’ll make plans if she has to: she is not up to this discussion.

Anger flashes fierce in Enjolras’s eyes. “The hell you do: you agreed to come here on the ABC’s dime to support us, to support _me._ You can make time for this discussion tonight, or you can leave now.”

There is too much happening all at once, and Grantaire feels shame burning through her entire body as her face grows hot and prickly. Her stomach is once again in flux, and it’s probably for the best that she had thrown up before the last session so that there are no remaining contents to empty into Enjolras’s lap.

Fortunately the blonde doesn’t seem to require any additional answer before she departs, leaving Grantaire to attempt to catch her breath in blessed privacy.

A nap. She definitely needs a nap.

She had been worried that she’d be too strung out on anxiety to fall asleep, but by the time Grantaire is back at the room her adrenaline is spent, and she crashes. 

When she wakes up the first time, she doesn’t even bother checking the digital clock at her bedside, instead shedding her business apparel for a camisole and some sleep shorts, washing off her makeup, drinking some water once her teeth have been brushed, and returning to bed.

The second time she wakes, her phone is almost on 90% and tells her that it is six o’clock. Her stomach gives a cautious rumble but finally feels stable enough for Grantaire to be willing to risk solid food. It’s too close to ‘evening’ to go out to get something without jeopardizing her upcoming Getting Bitched Out™, and ordering room service is just out. 

Instead, she stumbles across the room to her purse, grabbing a granola bar from its depths and wolfing it down without the least bit of concern for poise or appearance. After that and another glass of water Grantaire is still hungry, but she has a date with doom, so she settles for crawling back into bed and tormenting herself with global news.

(The notifications from Jeremy are deleted without a second thought.)

It’s nearly seven when Grantaire hears the door open, closing a moment later with a quiet _click_ before Enjolras finally appears from around the corner. 

It’s ridiculous how gorgeous she still looks in the relative darkness of the room and, of all things, a pants suit after a full day of networking and socializing. The royal blue blazer from before is missing, and her expression is almost soft when her eyes alight on Grantaire, features becoming rigid once she seems to remember who she is looking at.

“Feeling better?” she asks curtly, turning on a dim sconce and seating herself in front of the vanity.

It’s much calmer than Grantaire had anticipated, but then, this is Enjolras: of course she is physically capable of keeping herself in check. “Yeah. Definitely more mortal for having looked Thanatos in the eye and been found lacking, but it would seem that Charon has rejected my coin for another day.”

“That is fortunate.” Enjolras’s eyeliner and mascara are reapplied in painful quietude, and Grantaire can almost believe that that’s all that their discussion will entail until the blonde speaks again, eyeing her through the reflection. “I’d like to talk about last night.”

Here it comes. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Grantaire braces herself for what’s to come.

“I…I suppose I’m confused? Did I do something to upset you?” 

Grantaire blinks at the space where Enjolras is slowly brushing her hair. “I don’t—”

“You rarely drink anymore,” the leader continues, frowning at the mirror, “and I thought—well, I would hope that if something was wrong you would tell me. Which leads me to believe that I was the problem.” 

Oh no, no, this is too calm and rational. Grantaire is more of a ‘big angry shouting matches’ type, or even ‘piss off and sulk about it for a couple of weeks until she’s over it.’ ‘Fuck it out of her system,’ tragically, was rendered futile years ago with the realization that her utter infatuation with a certain fiery angel of justice was not so fleeting as she had hoped, but ‘bitch about it in therapy and never bring it up again’ has a solid track record. 

What’s worse is that Enjolras is right, she’s hit the nail exactly on the head, except with the wrong side of a ball-peen hammer. How could she possibly be blaming herself when she has done literally nothing but existing as a surreally perfect specimen of being? Moreover, how is Grantaire going to navigate this conversation without exposing herself as toeing the line for ‘obsessed’?

“It wasn’t anything you did, per se, I just—”

_“What are those?”_

Enjolras has finally turned around, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to realize what the other woman is even referring to. It’s hard to see from the mirror across the room, but now that she looks down she remembers that evidence of her activities the previous night coat her from jaw to tit and well below, her cami doing little to veil the marks. 

This is anger, though, and Grantaire knows how to handle anger. 

Evidently Enjolras has decided that she already has enough information to answer her own question, pushing on without any help from Grantaire. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know that you want the details, but I’d actually venture to say that it was pretty wild—”

“You can’t just come to a conference and _sleep around.”_

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise in something that borders on amusement. “Are you slutshaming me?” 

The leader sputters. “Of course not, but—this is a professional environment, you’re representing—”

“As was someone else.” And what an Outstanding representation it was. 

This only serves to further deepen the flush of the blonde’s countenance. “And—you of all people should be aware of the—the statistics for assault agai—”

“Of course I’m aware,” she bites, a familiar burn of righteous irritation hitting as she pushes herself upright. “I don’t need to be lectured on my own body, by _you_ of all people.”

It looks like Enjolras wants to say more, but her mouth remains pinched shut as she stands, turning to shut off the light and starting toward the door.

The blazer must have come off when she’d entered because when her ballet flats click back to the carpet Enjolras is wearing it again, her scarf and peacoat draped over an arm. “This may not be important to you, but it is to me.” The words are as cutting as the look she aims directly at Grantaire’s soul (not that Grantaire has ever believed in such a thing before now, but Enjolras has that effect on people). “It was difficult enough for us to get these tickets at all, and if we blow it this year we’re never getting a seat at the table again. You told me you could do this—you promised me. Prove it.”

With that, the blonde is gone, the not-quite slam of the door behind her leaving the room ringing in startled silence.

_Well, time to see if Burger King delivers._

It’s late when Enjolras gets back. The lights are already out, but despite her six-hour nap earlier in the day Grantaire is tired enough that she could certainly take on another sleep cycle or two. The only thing keeping her up at this point is the irrational need to apologize for having been such a dick.

(It probably is rational for like, normal people, but normal people wouldn’t have gotten blitzed and hooked up with some Guy in A Suit™ just to avoid sharing a bed either, nor would they have looked at the opportunity to discuss it rationally and been filled with the overwhelming need to bait the other person into a fight.)

Regardless, Enjolras does return, and she does so quietly. Grantaire can hear the padding of bare feet across tile as the light from the bathroom turns on, splashing the alcove in orange as cloth shifts against cloth. There are more rustling sounds from where Enjolras’s suitcase is presumably stored before the bathroom door shuts, the soft humming sound of the bathroom fan filling the air and mingling with the sounds of running water.

It could be minutes or hours (it feels like a fucking long time, though) before the door finally opens again, the glow of the bathroom throwing Enjolras’s silhouette up against the closet. The light is turned off shortly after, and the woman’s soft footsteps are soon muffled by the carpet as she moves through the dark room. Grantaire remains curled up on her side, only barely feeling the bed’s slight shift when the object of her demise finally settles in.

Well, her plan to apologize just seems creepy now, after having laid awake and in total silence through Enjolras’s entire bedtime ritual. She’s about to resign herself to a morning apology when— 

“Good night, Grantaire.”

It’s murmured so softly Grantaire isn’t certain she’s heard it at first, but she has never been given to auditory hallucinations, and not even in her most divine dreams has she ever imagined Enjolras saying her name with such tenderness.

Turns out it’s much easier to bitch out of an apology than to commit to responding to a definitive declaration of non-anger. Nevertheless, Grantaire is A Stubbornass Hoe™, and when she truly sets her mind to something she is unstoppable. 

“Good night, Enjolras.”

—-

Morning, predictably, arrives entirely too soon, but at least today she wakes feeling well-rested, to her first alarm no less. Enjolras, on the other hand, appears to hold no such predilection, and from the corner of her eye Grantaire is able to catch a flash of movement accompanied by an incredibly disgruntled moan.

“Our great charioteer of light isn’t a morning person?” She really isn’t in any position to tease someone whom she so thoroughly pissed off so very recently, but Grantaire has also never been one to let a thing like Common Sense™ get in the way of a good allusion. 

It seems to be the right call: either Enjolras isn’t awake enough to process Grantaire’s words or it is beyond her to care, because the only response is another muffled and vaguely irritated groan.

Stretching languidly to turn off her alarm, Grantaire is suddenly faced with the full reality of the situation and promptly yeets herself out of bed and to the bathroom. Since Enjolras evidently showers at night, Grantaire technically can take as long as she wants this morning, but she’s also supposed to be on her best behavior today, so she quickly takes her meds, applies her eye drops, and hops in the shower.

Once she’s out and has slipped into the remaining embossed robe, she sets to work drying her hair, rubbing some shea onto her much-neglected skin, and putting on her face. The hickeys have faded to a dull brown for the most part, which isn’t ideal but is nothing that the right combination of concealer and foundation can’t fix. A setting spray should keep it in place until lunch, at the very least.

With her last fake eyelash applied, Grantaire ventures carefully into the room. According to the program, hot cocoa and pastries are available today and tomorrow in lieu of a proper breakfast, but given that Grantaire is fairly certain that Enjolras’s ‘normal breakfast’ is three cups of coffee she doesn’t expect the blonde to be up yet.

The reality of seeing Enjolras asleep is significantly less sensual than her daydreams had led her to believe, but it doesn’t leave much room for disappointment either: it turns out that Enjolras is not only a natural starfisher but also a blanket hog by nature, if the now-barren side of the bed is anything to judge by. Not Grantaire’s side, of course: evidently the brief forty-five minute-interlude (For all that Grantaire had to do? Brief.) was all the time Enjolras needed to claim not just the rest of the duvet but also Grantaire’s pillows and the territory that came with them. 

She’s almost reluctant to wake the Sleeping not-quite Beauty (that’s a lie, even with no makeup and the most absurd case of bedhead Grantaire has ever witnessed in her life Enjolras is radiance personified, passion smudged into the blanket creases that marr her cheek); however, seven o’clock is approaching, and Grantaire has no idea how long Enjolras takes to get ready in the morning.

Deciding how to wake the resting revolutionary is a whole task on its own, but Grantaire decides that the safest way is probably the most obvious. She kneels beside the bed, barely speaking above a whisper: “Trickle-down economics are viable and effective.”

“Mmm? Courf?” comes the bleary response.

Dammit. “C’mon Sunshine, up and at ‘em: long day of asskissing ahead of us.”

“You’re back,” Enjolras smiles dopily, peering over from the pillow. “You weren’t here before.”

O-kay then. “Yeah, well. Hygieia’s Shrine is open if you have need. Or Aphrodite, I suppose, if we’re to take the bathroom as the home of vani—”

Before Grantaire can even finish the woman has already crawled to the edge of the bed, comforter still wrapped around her, and begun trudging her way across the room. The journey is punctuated by the sound of a door being thrown shut, bathroom fans resuming their honest work immediately after.

_Sterculius it is._

Grantaire figures she only has as long as it takes for Enjolras to brush her teeth and maybe wash her face before her privacy will be interrupted, so she takes the time to gather her outfit of the day and begin scrolling to see what memes were born in her sleep.

She’s hardly a text-post in before Enjolras makes her reappearance, looking significantly more awake but equally unhappy to be out of bed.

“I’m just gonna change real quick, and then it’s all yours.” The explanation is met with a disgruntled sound of acknowledgment before Grantaire is sweeping back into the bathroom with her belongings. 

Things start off well enough (as well as panty hose ever go—no runners is a good day as far as she’s concerned), but once she’s finally in her dress she runs into a snag.

“Uh, hey,” she starts sheepishly on re-entry. 

Enjolras, bold as ever, has apparently already changed into her power suit of the day, a green ensemble that should belong in the nineties but instead looks disgustingly good on her. “Something wrong?”

“My zipper. It’s, ah—” ‘Stuck’ is accurate, but she usually ends up bothering Musichetta or one of the boys to help with this dress anyway. Clearly she had been overconfident in her outfit selection.

“Ah.” A pretty flush dusts Enjolras’s cheeks as she stands. “I can help.”

It’s super totally not a big deal at all because Grantaire has had people zip her into and out of this dress plenty of times before, a not insignificant number of which were done in markedly saucier scenarios than this one. The soft graze of Enjolras’s knuckle against her skin means nothing, nor does the careful gentleness in the way her hair is tucked out of the way of the zipper or how very very warm Enjolras’s breath is where it kisses against her bare skin.

Nope, this is all Totally Cool™.

An awkward cough pulls her from her reverie as the touch disappears. “I think that’s you sorted, then. I just need a minute to brush my hair and put on some lipstick, and I think we’ll be set.”

“Take your time,” Grantaire says, and she normally means it, but she especially means it now. 

In the end Enjolras takes five minutes, which is perfect because five minutes is exactly how long it takes to assure that one’s best friend will wake up to a text with exactly 99,999 H’s and no explanation at all.

No cap, the hot chocolate here might actually make the whole trip worth it. She doesn’t bother telling Enjolras because rubbing it in the vegan’s face that she can’t enjoy the finest things in life (and then receiving her usual lecture on environmental responsibility and global citizenship and factory farms) doesn’t seem like the way Grantaire should start the day, but hell, it is a Damned Good Start™. Even so, Grantaire has her suspicions that Enjolras might not need to be told how good the hot chocolate is, if the smirks the woman keeps throwing in her direction are any indicator.

What? Grantaire has been known to be in a good mood. It happens sometimes.

Unfortunately, the mood doesn’t last, and honestly it is beyond her how Enjolras wasn’t much, _much_ angrier at Grantaire yesterday for abandoning her to this crowd: the conference is meant to be about appealing to LGBTQIA+ audiences and partnering with the queer community moving forward regarding marketing and policy-making, but Grantaire would bet anything that 75% of the presenters thinks that the A stands for Ally, and were she not on her Very Best Behavior™ today she’d have the polling results to prove it. What little she had caught of yesterday’s opening speech is entirely at-odds with everything she has seen thus far, and the blonde’s patience seems to be wearing understandably thin.

Today’s activities, unfortunately, maintain a depressing amount of emphasis on the ‘active,’ but at least she feels up to answering the group questions. They are apparently in the same groups as yesterday; everyone either actually believes Enjolras’s lie that Grantaire had fallen violently ill from Thursday night’s dinner (given that that dinner moonlights as an LMFAO song, not wholly untrue) or are very extremely polite. Either way, thus far it’s the most forgiving part of this conference.

At first Grantaire ventures cautiously, saying only the bare minimum and glancing toward Enjolras for confirmation that she hasn’t overstepped. The others at their table are woefully under-informed but delightfully open with their questions, and as far as Grantaire can tell so long as she doesn’t demean them for asking ignorant shit and stays mostly on-topic Enjolras is happy. Before long it becomes obvious that theirs is The Woke Table™, and a quick exchange of looks following two separate uncomfortable interactions with the session facilitators determines that TWT™ should probably keep their future discussions to themselves. 

“That,” Enjolras begins, eyebrows raised in mild disbelief once the final session of the evening has been released, “was offensive.”

Grantaire gives a slow nod. The other people at their table had slowly but surely caught on throughout the day, and by the end of a particularly offensive session on the nature of bisexuality even Esther, a woman old enough to be Grantaire’s grandmother twice over, was looking somewhat mutinous.

“How are you feeling?” asks the blonde suddenly, looking up at Grantaire.

“Um? Fine?”

“They said some—God, I hadn’t even…” Enjolras shakes her head. “I should have said something.”

“Hey, no.” The rebuttal earns Grantaire a perplexed look. “You said it yourself, we worked hard to get our foot in the door. We’re networking, we’re teaching people. Ron now knows not to say ‘the gays.’” Enjolras snorts at that, and Grantaire’s stomach gives an unhelpful flutter before she rechannels her inner C-squared. “We’re making progress just by being here. And ABC is definitely going to be able to learn from what we’re seeing: our being here does have value.”

Enjolras’s lower lip works between her teeth as she stares at the table, and Grantaire forces herself to look at something else. “That…shouldn’t come at the cost of your comfort.”

“Our comfort,” Grantaire corrects, recalling some particularly uninformed views on lesbians. “We’re doing this so others don’t have to.”

Another huffed laugh. “When did you become such an optimist?”

“Must be something about waking up next to Astraea,” she winks with much more self-assurance than she feels before giving a sudden gasp. “Wait—Gods, how have I not made this joke before now?”

The blonde’s marble brow furrows. “What?”

“The Greek goddess of justice, Enjolras.”

“...Astraea?” 

“Well yes, but she’s the virgin of purity and precision and stuff too. There’s another, though, the daughter of Zeus and Themis—” Grantaire has to stop, she’s laughing too hard.

“What is it?”

She finally gets herself together long enough to deliver the punchline, only a half-step above a whisper. _“You’re Dike.”_

Enjolras’s expression swiftly flits through offense, bewilderment, confusion, and understanding before finally settling on the most glorious reaction, full uncontrollable laughter that leaves her doubled over in her seat. If Grantaire wasn’t laughing so hard herself she might do something really creepy and embarrassing like stare, but fortunately she’s funny as hell, and watching Enjolras go through all of the stages of realizing as much has her stomach aching.

Hotel staff are already cleaning up the room by the time their laughter subsides, Grantaire wiping tears from her eyes and accepting that a trip to the bathroom to touch up her makeup before dinner was inevitable anyway.

No one can say that Jeanne Louise-Phillipe Enjolras, Arbiter of Justice and Temporary Withstander of Much Bullshit, isn’t taking advantage of every networking opportunity available at this shindig. After grabbing dinner with some of the reps at an actual proper mogai support group whom they’d met in the exhibition room and exchanging information, it would seem that there is yet another event to attend.

“Is this what kept you out so late last night?”

“I stayed out a little later than I might have if I was happier with you,” Enjolras admits as they follow the signs through the corridors of the hotel. “If I have to put up with hearing three days of, of these—” 

“TERFy Rainbow Reps?” Grantaire suggests.

 _“TERFy Rainbow Reps,”_ Enjolras agrees with a surprising amount of vehemence, “attempting to explain ‘the gay agenda,’ I’m getting some contacts out of it.”

“Really, though. Like, I know I wasn’t in the most exuberant of states yesterday, but how did we get from discussing intersectionality to people who don’t even recognize ace-spectrum people as part of the community?”

“Apparently that speaker was originally slated for closing notes and also summarily dismissed,” Enjolras scowls. “The scheduled keynote speaker was a no-show.”

“‘I am Jack’s utter lack of surprise,’” Grantaire intones with a roll of her eyes. “This event’s a shitshow.”

“I am definitely disappointed at how lauded it is for what we have seen. I don’t understand how this could have come to be.”

“Corporate circlejerk, probably.”

A sound of disgust. “They’re trying to manufacture queer pride into a palatable marketable good.”

“And we all know how you feel about capitalism,” Grantaire grins, pausing at a cross-section. “Honestly, if we had the connects we could probably run this thing better with just the two of us. Throw in Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and maybe Cosette and Éponine to strongarm the right people into what we want? We could be this big in three years, easily.”

“You think?” Enjolras looks thoughtful.

“Not if I can help it,” shrugs Grantaire, shoving her hands into the pockets of her dress (what a great fucking find). “I know only love and liberty, after all, but I’m pretty sure I can get into corporate heads well enough to know that they’ll start playing Follow the Leader.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras’s eyes have narrowed at something distant, and Grantaire is suddenly worried she’s giving the revolutionary Ideas™.

“C’mon, I think I hear music over here,” she says suddenly, starting to reach for Enjolras’s hand before thinking better of it.

Enjolras evidently has no such trepidation, slotting her fingers between Grantaire’s and starting toward the room at a pace that almost leaves the latter stumbling in her heels.

If she didn’t know better, Grantaire would have been hard-pressed to assume that this was a conference: chocolate-flavored vodka is available in the corner, as are a number of other confections at each table; a dancefloor and DJ are set up on the far side of the room, weirdly full given the general demographic in attendance; and all around her Grantaire sees splashes of rainbow lights.

Ordering a seltzer each, they set up shop at the (free) bar, ironically the quietest area in the room, and lie in wait to strike up discussions with anyone who seems amenable; to Grantaire’s surprise, a good many are. She hears Enjolras asking a lot of people what they think of the sessions, but Grantaire is tired of talking about this shitshow and instead focuses on pitching Les Amis, freeing herself of a good bulk of the business cards she’s had stashed in her purse since seeing Marius Wednesday. 

Mid-conversation, Rhonda (who works in HR with some company Grantaire has already forgotten the name and purpose of) interrupts herself. “Oh my God, it’s him.”

“Who?”

“The no-show speaker from yesterday! I heard he got lost on the way to the conference, poor man. My, though, he is handsome.”

Grantaire nudges Enjolras to pass on the information—this is clearly someone important enough that a Proper Good Impression™ needs to be made—only looking too late to the dancefloor to identify their directionally challenged target.

“Grantaire!” he cheers, leaning in to press a kiss against her cheek.

“J-Jeremy!” She can feel Enjolras’s confused look and scrambles for an out. “This is Enjolras, she’s the head of my group. The one I told you about?”

She did no such thing, but between the two of them he has much more to lose.

“Right, I’ve heard so much about your work! It’s an honor, truly,” he says, reaching out to shake Enjolras’s hand before turning back to Grantaire. “I tried texting you last night, were you feeling all right?”

“Oh, you know,” Grantaire awkwardly excuses, “stomach bug. Ended up having to call it at lunch.”

“Oh God, if it was anything like mine I’m amazed that you got out of bed at all.”

Enjolras’s questions are burning on her skin, but the blonde evidently has made the blessed choice to give Grantaire a temporary out on this one: “Dr. Solomon, correct? I believe I’ve read some of your work.”

_‘Doctor’? What did he study, Cunilingus?_

“Oh? Work or play?”

“Bit of both, if you can believe it.” Oh, that’s Charming Enjolras™, what in Hades’s three hells could Jeremy have to offer that Enjolras would want? “Have you had a chance to attend many of the sessions?” 

“Unfortunately not: stomach bug had me laid up all Friday,” he explains somberly, eyes darting quickly in Grantaire’s direction, “and today there was an issue at work that required most of the day to handle. I’m hoping to be able to catch up tomorrow, though.” 

“I see,” nods Enjolras. “Will you be doing the closing speech, then?”

“I will,” he confirms. “Very kind of the organizers to rearrange the schedule to allow it.”

“Very kind indeed,” she agrees, composure shifting to something slightly brighter. “Well, I’m sure you want to be getting on with your night, so I won’t hold you up any longer, but we’d be honored to have you join us at our table tomorrow.”

_We would?_

“Is that so?” He looks expectantly toward Grantaire, who gracefully and glamorously does not choke on her seltzer.

With Enjolras shooting her a pointedly stiff smile from behind Jeremy’s elbow, the answer is clear. “Couldn’t be happier.”

“Well then, I may have to take you ladies up on that,” he smiles, accepting a drink from the bartender and returning to the dancefloor shortly thereafter.

“What was that about?” Grantaire hisses.

“I thought you said he got lost.”

“That’s what Rhonda told me.”

“It sounds like you might be slightly better-informed than Rhonda.”

Apparently not in any way that matters—she really should take a page from Éponine and run budget background checks on her future hook-ups. “Sounds, intonations, linguistic structure: these are all steeped so deeply in cultural context. Who are we truly to say what meaning was intended to be read from the transcripts of mankind’s—”

“You don’t seem like you want to see him again.”

“Eh,” Grantaire shrugs. 

There’s a glimmer of amusement in Enjolras’s eye when she asks, “Sex that bad?” 

The man could read braille with his tongue and ate ass like Whole Foods. _“Doctor,”_ she shudders instead, feigning a grimace. “Anything above an associate’s degree implies entirely too much commitment.”

Enjolras nods. “It did seem he was looking for a bit more than a one-night stand.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that, I just don’t want it with him.”

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck almighty,_ that was way more elaboration than is beneficial to offer, especially to someone who is the pointed holder of two Master’s degrees. Already she sees Enjolras’s eyebrows arching in surprise, and God fucking dammit this is _straight seltzer,_ this shouldn’t be happening.

Before Grantaire has a chance to begin overexplaining herself into an even deeper pit, she sees Esther rolling off the dancefloor with a man half her age and decides that this is a conversation she _has_ to have.

Despite Enjolras’s earlier claims of having taken her time the night before, it’s half-past eleven before they finally excuse themselves from the bar and start toward their room, and Grantaire is nearly dragging the other woman to do it.

“You know you don’t operate on fewer than eight hours of sleep,” she tells Enjolras once they exit the banquet hall.

“I could,” comes the defensive answer as the other woman unzips her clutch.

“Not according to Courf or Ferre.” To her knowledge the blonde has been mindful of this limitation since the close of her undergrad days, so Grantaire hasn’t had much opportunity since getting her head screwed on straight to witness it firsthand, but she’s heard Stories™.

Enjolras swears suddenly. “I haven’t talked with them yet today.”

“I’m sure they—”

“Six missed calls,” she confirms, already tapping something into her phone.

Damn, the years really haven’t changed much. “Need me to make myself scarce for a bit?”

“I’m not sure they’ll still be—” As if in direct contradiction to Enjolras’s words, the phone begins vibrating.

Not bothering to stifle her laugh, Grantaire shakes her head. “I have to Moisturize anyway, and I’m sure you won’t want to be waiting on me. Take your time.”

She waves to the blonde as she enters the elevator, fixing her curls in the mirror as she waits to arrive at their floor. Despite her previous evening of solitude, coming back to the empty hotel room unaccompanied feels strange, and she resolves not to let herself dwell on it too long.

It takes all of one minute for her to run into her first snag: the dress’s zipper is still a finicky bitch, and it looks entirely too damned good on her _(and has pockets)_ to risk pulling it up over her head and compromising a seam. Sighing, she resigns herself to another mortifying and absolutely soul-destroying (if not thrilling) intimate encounter with her roommate before starting for the bathroom.

Once her face and chest are more or less free of makeup and she is hydrated, lotioned, and medicated, she climbs back into bed to watch whatever channels this place gets. If the triple-ply is anything to go by, she suspects it’s all of them.

Unfortunately, she gets sidetracked from her quest by the smell of argan oil on her pillow. It takes a moment for Grantaire to remember why her pillow would have such a foreign scent when the memory of the morning, of Enjolras invading her side of the bed and burying her face into her pillows, resurfaces.

Whelp. This simply isn’t going to work.

Asking room service for new pillows seems like a bad idea when Enjolras could be back any moment, but this is also a fancy enough place that Grantaire trusts that the staff wouldn’t bat an eye if she did request more. Besides, the way she sees it, this is an investment in her future: if she calls now, she will have a future.

She’s already returning the phone to the receiver when the door finally opens. 

“Someone call?” Enjolras asks, brow furrowing as she kicks off her shoes and shrugs off her blazer.

Being attracted to someone shrugging off her blazer is the most lesbian thing Grantaire can think of, and she has eaten pussy and enjoyed it.

“Nah, just room service.”

“Something wrong?”

She shrugs. “Can never have too many pillows.”

“Not untrue.” If she weren’t watching very closely, she might have missed the way Enjolras’s smooth motions stutter for a beat. “I didn’t, ah. I’ve been told I splay in my sleep.”

“You splay in your wake, too,” Grantaire points out, recalling their initial arrival with a smirk.

“Did I. I respected your boundaries in my sleep, correct?”

Grantaire has worryingly few boundaries to respect where Enjolras is concerned. “Nah, you’re good. Stole my side of the bed once I was up, but that was bound to happen. I mean, you know how small these queen beds are,” she adds with a wink.

Enjolras flushes, chuckling awkwardly as she fiddles with the buttons of her shirt, and Grantaire decides that this conversation is due for a Total Overhaul™.

“C-squared managing without you?”

It seems to be the right choice: Enjolras scoffs, crossing her arms and leaning back against the vanity. “You wouldn’t think it, the way they were worrying.”

“How is Courf’s Thing going?” 

“Her sister’s baby shower. It went well. Apparently the diaper raffle was a big hit.”

“And Ferre?”

“Still glad to be coming to the end of residency.”

Grantaire shakes her head. “One day one of you is going to get arrested and be sent to some high-security detention facility, and the three of you are going to simultaneously cease to exist.”

“Courfeyrac is a very good lawyer.”

“That is not as reassuring as you seem to think it is.”

It makes Enjolras laugh, and as the blonde pushes off of the vanity there is a fraction of a moment when Grantaire is certain the woman is approaching her; the leader’s path swerves toward the bathroom before she reaches the bed, though, and Grantaire shakes her head at the wistful thinking. What is she, some kind of optimist? 

She remembers a beat too late why she was waiting for the blonde in the first place. “Wait, Angel!” she calls, springing up from the bed.

When she rounds the corner, Enjolras is already hanging halfway out the the doorway of the bathroom, top two buttons of her grandad shirt undone and expression expectant. It takes a moment for Grantaire to regather her gay, gay thoughts.

“Um, my dress, the zipper—”

“Right,” the leader nods, stepping the rest of the way out of the bathroom. “Turn around.”

She does, trying to keep her thoughts in line as she watches Enjolras’s expression in the mirror adorning the closet opposite them. The woman reaches up carefully, with almost a certain reverence, to the exposed zipper at the base of her neck. (Grantaire had been very careful to put her curls up this time to avoid any Unnecessary Hair Handling.) The touch is feather-light even as the zipper catches twice more, and her body feels unbearably exposed as the dress begins its gradual release. Enjolras’s lip is caught between her teeth again, attention focused entirely on the task at hand, and Grantaire concentrates on keeping her breathing steady and unincriminating.

“Grantaire?” The syllables come hardly above a whisper, voice trepidatious.

“Yeah?” 

She nearly jumps when the knock sounds at the door, two sharp raps. Enjolras recovers first (if, indeed, she needed any sort of recovery period at all) and answers the door. 

“Room service,” the employee explains, offering a stack of five pillows.

What? She had a Panic™.

“Thank you,” Enjolras responds, voice much more confident than it had been a moment before as she accepts the pile.

“Here, let me help.”

“I’ve got it, you get the door.”

Ugh. Interacting with people. “Thanks,” Grantaire offers awkwardly, trying to feel less utterly aware of the fact that the back of her dress is totally open. “Um, do I need to sign anything, or?”

“Nope,” they answer cheerfully. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

 _Don’t suppose there’s a physician onhand for dying of sexual frustration?_ “Nope, that’ll be all. Thank you,” she repeats.

They give her a quick salute before disappearing down the hallway, and Grantaire closes the door with a sigh.

“Five pillows?” Enjolras muses, returning to the tiled entryway.

It was a Big Panic™. “Can never have too many pillows,” Grantaire reminds the blonde with what she hopes is a blasé shrug, breezing past the other woman toward the main area.

“Normally I’d agree, but nine is a lot for such a quaint queen-sized bed,” Enjolras grins, leaning up against the wall.

A small price to pay for surviving until daylight. Though if Enjolras keeps looking at her like that with her arms crossed and forearms exposed and _the top two buttons of her shirt still undone, the harlot,_ Grantaire still might not make it.

“Hypnos loves a lofty place to lay his head, and his sons require a base from which to launch their dastardly operations; the original triumvirate, or perhaps secondary to that of the Fates, Morpheus and his broth—”

The door sounds, the whir of the bathroom fan filling the air, and Grantaire is officially alone again. _Thank fuck._

The dress is replaced with boxers and an old t-shirt, and her pillows are quickly traded for some fresh ones (she definitely, _definitely_ does not take another deep argan-scented breath in the process) before she rearranges the new ones in a probably-unsubtle line down the middle of the bed and settles down to finally check out the channels in this shindig.

The room is dark when Grantaire wakes up, and her phone tells her it is almost 3 in the morning. The TV is off, though, and she finds herself half-covered by the shared duvet, which is definitely not the state the room was in when she dozed off.

Against all sense of self-preservation, she hazards a glance toward the sleeping form of her bedmate. The dim moonlight illuminates the shocks of brighter blonde in Enjolras’s hair and highlights the sharp cut of her cheekbones. In short, she looks ethereal, every bit the goddess Grantaire always proclaims her to be.

_Eros indeed._

Grantaire rolls back onto her side, turning away from the sight and trying not to think too hard about the arm thrown protectively over the stack of pillows dividing them.

—-

This time Grantaire has the common sense (™) not to say anything when her alarm goes off, sneaking into the bathroom without so much as a glance in the opposite direction. She grabs her clothing this time too, a sensible mauve skirt suit that she will definitely not need help into or out of, and hangs that inside of the door.

It’s the last day of this hell-conference, and she will survive it if it kills her.

After forty-five minutes of preparation, Grantaire is fully dressed and made-up. The game plan is to wake Enjolras up, pack her things while the blonde is in the bathroom, and leave: being friends with the object of her affection is nice but definitely veering entirely too close to the sun, and these wings took a Fucking Long Time™ to craft.

Bracing herself, she opens the door to begin phase 1b of her Master Plan™ and swiftly shuts it. No big deal, no big deal, Master Plan™ can be salvaged: she can go down to breakfast immediately, pack during breaks, and take an Uber home. Sure, it’s four hours, and Enjolras doesn’t have a license to drive Grantaire’s car, but figuring out those details would mean Actually Talking, and the only words Grantaire can manage right now are,

“You own black lace?”

Of course she does. _Of course_ she does. Directly cut and pasted from Grantaire’s steamiest and most unattainable dreams, _of course_ Enjolras not only owns black lace lingerie but also chooses to pack and wear it to conferences. This is a normal thing that normal people everywhere do. 

Totally. Normal.

(at least the copy-paste function seemed to miss the garter belt)

“It’s my Battle Armor!”

And of course Enjolras wouldn’t sound the least bit concerned about this entire situation.

“I’m dressed, by the way.”

That’s Grantaire’s cue. The option remains to run away, but it’s going to be a lot weirder with Enjolras watching. If she’s already dressed, all Grantaire needs to do is jump ship while Enjolras is in the bathroom, and she’ll be set. Taking three deep, steadying breaths, Grantaire commits herself to opening the door and facing her death.

“Sorry about that.” The curtains are open, and the morning light shining behind Enjolras’s charcoal pantsuit actually makes her look like an angel, which was especially unfair two minutes ago when _black lace was involved._

“Danae was impregnated like that, y’know.”

“I’d like to see Zeus try.”

“Don’t tempt him.” He has gone for far less tempting prospects before, after all. _Black lace._

“Anyway, I didn’t know how much longer you’d be. I would have waited if I’d known.”

_But she’d still be wearing Black Lace™._

Has Enjolras been wearing black lace every day?

No. This is not a line of thought conducive to getting through the day.

(But also, if she texts Éponine now, she might be able to arrange for a separate ride home for Enjolras, and that would be worth every favor she will owe Éponine for the rest of time.)

“Yeah, no, it’s no problem at all,” Grantaire lies, because she is a lying liar who does such things. She’s still standing in the entryway, which feels entirely too claustrophobic, so she takes a few quick steps to move to sit at the edge of the bed. Since she utterly lacks two brain cells to rub together, she continues: “What were you saying before about Battle Armor?”

“Oh.” Finally, it’s Enjolras’s turn to appear at all flustered by the situation. “It’s a joke Courf had in high school: on really hard days, she would put on her cutest underwear because it made her feel unstoppable. When she finally started transitioning she made Ferre and I buy some too in solidarity, and,” she shrugs, “I mean. You do feel pretty unstoppable.”

“Huh.” She definitely knows the feeling, though she usually wears hers on Depression Days™ or days she intends to get laid—not the last day of a conference. “Any particular reason you feel the need to be fortified today?”

Enjolras’s smile takes on a sly quality that totally fucks with Grantaire’s heartrate. “We are going into battle.”

Following that cryptic-as-hell response, Enjolras managed to keep up a steady conversation with Grantaire even as she brushed her teeth, both preventing Grantaire from leaving and reinforcing her running theory that the blonde really is the God of Prophesy come to earth—which, honestly, rude? If she’s going to be omnipotent, couldn’t she possibly dedicate her powers to something slightly more productive than expediting Grantaire’s demise and foiling her Master Plans™?

She finally has an opportunity to split off from the blonde when the line for hot cocoa is significantly shorter than the one for coffee and gladly takes it, sitting down with a man from the group beside theirs and listening to his assessment of the conference. Evidently he has spoken with someone from TWT™ because he spends the entire five minutes of their discussion regaling Grantaire on some of the independent research he did the night prior followed by the discussion he’d had with his socially aware niece on the phone that morning. It’s a surprising turn of events but certainly not an unwelcome one.

Howard ends up escorting her to her table where, to her discomfort, she sees Jeremy has already made a place for himself next to Enjolras. He waves at her as she approaches, and the traitor beside him doesn’t even look like she’s trying to bite back her amusement.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” she nods, taking a seat to the other side of him. Something in Enjolras’s grin wavers, and she would assume it’s that the blonde’s plan to make Grantaire as intensely uncomfortable as possible backfiring except that Enjolras has been really nice all morning.

(Well, always, given some of the bullshit Grantaire has pulled over the years, but especially this morning.)

“It looks like they have a really interesting line-up of sessions this morning,” Jeremy continues. “I’m very excited to see how they go.”

At that, Grantaire frowns at Enjolras. Are they really letting Jeremy go into this blind? If Enjolras truly had, as she said the night before, read multiple of his articles by choice, surely he doesn’t agree with anything that’s going to happen today.

Enjolras gives a minute shake of her head before taking another sip of her coffee. “I’m particularly interested in the panel on queer biology.”

“Yes! The discussion of the hormonal aspect, especially regarding intersex people and at-birth gendering, is something I would love to hear this group’s feelings on.” He turns to look at Grantaire. “I know Miss Enjolras mentioned that she’s read some of my research, but my work revolves primarily around studying the neurology behind gender and how the scientific aspect interacts with the cultural side of things.”

Given that Grantaire is one-hundred percent sure that this lot is going to be talking about ‘the ongoing search for the gay gene’ and conveniently skimming over the eugenic implications of what the discovery of such a thing could entail, she decides that Enjolras is probably onto something with this whole ‘not telling Jeremy’ thing. She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand and batting her eyelashes a few times before asking, 

“Oh wow, like, in a lab?”

The look on Enjolras’s face is totally worth the fifteen minutes of mansplaining that follow.

“That,” Jeremy begins, eyebrows raised in mild disbelief once the second session of the morning has been released for break, “was offensive.”

The rest of TWT™ nod in silent agreement as the doctorate-holder’s shock settles in. 

“So will you join us?” Enjolras asks.

In what?

“Oh yes, absolutely. There’s no way this can be allowed to continue as it is.”

_Join us in what?_

“Great. Everyone, fan out: mission’s a go.”

“Join us in what?” Grantaire repeats aloud, but everyone is already fast on their way to pull off whatever Project Mayhem Enjolras has evidently telepathically conveyed to everyone who is not her.

As she makes her way around the hall she observes that everyone seems quieter than they had been yesterday, a quality she might normally attribute to it being the final day of the conference were it not for her table’s extremely sus exchange. A closer look indicates that any and all conversation seems to slow to a halt when the organizers come around, and a lot of highly incovert looks and nods are being exchanged across the room.

_Jeanne Louise-Phillipe Enjolras, what have you gotten us into?_

The following session starts off innocuously enough: it’s supposed to be a panel on drag culture, which might be really cool if it wasn’t a session run by the Basic Brigade, who open the presentation by assuring everyone in attendance that people who do drag are not necessarily trans or gay.

Enjolras’s hand shoots up, and the session rapidly deteriorates from there. 

Most, if not all, of Enjolras’s ‘networking’ must have been in order to put out feelers for this very thing because suddenly every table appears familiar with the basics of trans rights, issues, and terminology, and in the face of educated pressure the facilitators do not seem to be coping very well.

“Well yes, but biologically—”

“Biologically,” the good doctor interrupts, “gender is as incredibly complex and diverse as the individuals who comprise it. If you’re interested in any further reading on this subject I have a number of studies I can direct you to.”

And okay, maybe Grantaire wouldn’t strictly _mind_ a follow-up rendezvous.

The session has stretched on an hour longer than scheduled by the time Enjolras is openly arguing with one particularly unfortunate (but well-deserving) presenter. Grantaire has already tried several times to deter the blonde, if for no reason but to stick to the only part of the plan she does know, aka Represent Les Amis de l’ABC with Pride (which is a terrible pun for which Courfeyrac deserves much more payment), but she’s pretty sure that this is Enjolras representing ABC to her fullest capabilities, and Goddamn is she doing it Proudly.

“In downplaying the value of trans identities you are erasing an entire dimension of our community, siblings-in-arms who have fought and suffered alongside us as long as gender as a concept has existed. The Stonewall Riots, for example, which you and your colleagues offered a not-quite comprehensive history on, were started by Marsha P Johnson, a trans woman of color—”

“Then why don’t we ever hear about him, if he did so much?”

“We don’t hear about _her_ because _her_ legacy, like that of so many other trans people of color, was erased not only by cis white people but also in the HIV epidemic that followed. Yes, the LGB community was heavily affected, but the trans community was disproportionately wiped out. Even today the CDC estimates that nearly a quarter of the trans population in the US lives with HIV, and over half of the black trans community is afflicted.”

“And that is tragic,” the presenter says, not a trace of sympathy evident, “but given that this is a conference focusing on appealing to the LGBT community specifically and not the entire alphabet that follows it,” a pause for the other presenters to snicker, “I don’t see how it’s relevant to our discussion today.”

A surge of red in the blonde’s cheeks is the only warning Grantaire receives before the leader is on her feet. _“That’s the T, Cis.”_

The full force of the pun nearly knocks Grantaire out of her seat, but not nearly so much as the comeback. “Look, they can get all the surgeries and take all the medicine they want, but a trans person will never—”

They never find out what trans people are incapable of; instead, they collectively discover that Jeanne Louise-Phillipe Enjolras is capable of an incredibly mean left hook.

“So Les Amis de l’ABC are banned from all future events hosted by this organization, and you personally can be expecting your court summons in the next two to five weeks via post.” The woman in question and her bags have already been escorted out to Grantaire’s car.

Leaning against the vehicle, Enjolras nods slowly. Her expression is blank, which Grantaire is not nearly fool enough to mistake for anything even mildly resembling regret.

“But,” she continues, “Jeremy asked me to pass on his contact info to you to discuss putting together an event once Publishing Season slows down.” Whatever that means. “He also gave me his contact details, but I'm passing both on to you in case you lose one or get hungry or something. Didn't see much rabbit food at breakfast this morning.”

“So…” Enjolras starts cautiously, right hand digging sheepishly into her pocket as she chews at her lip, “you’re not mad?”

Grantaire squints at the woman before her. “Why would I be mad?”

“I mean…I caused a bit of a commotion—”

“You literally started a coup mid-panel.”

“—and pointedly ignored you when you tried to calm me down.”

“Yeah, because I thought you’d be mad at yourself for ‘misrepresenting the ABC’ or whatever. Which,” Grantaire points out, “I personally do not think you did at all.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows raise. “Don’t you?” 

“‘Absolutely physically incapable of keeping the peace in the face of injustice’?” She snorts. “I cannot think of a single more on-brand course of action. And yeah, Queer Pride Lite and the hotel may not be very pleased with you, but as far as I’m concerned, their opinions don’t mean shit.”

The corners of Enjolras’s mouth tip upward into a grateful smile as she reaches out to clasp Grantaire’s hand in hers, giving it a quick squeeze. “Thank you. For everything, I mean. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we didn’t have to bide our time until you mentioned it, and knowing I had you there to back me up made all the difference.”

Grantaire is still a little hung up on this hand development (™). “Oh, uh. No problem. I mean, I’m sure Courf would have said the same.”

“She might have,” Enjolras shrugs, “but it wouldn’t have been the same coming from her.”

“Of course not.” How, Grantaire has no idea, but this encounter is becoming a little too genuine for her tastes.

“Also she would have joined in on planning, and we would have been kicked out way earlier. Like, the first day.” 

That she can agree with. “Without a doubt. Gotta have that wider reach. For that, you are most welcome.”

“Not to mention that she definitely wouldn’t have gotten us an in with one of the biggest names in hormone studies.”

“Don’t knock hooking up at professional conferences until you’ve tried it,” she grins, internally swearing an oath never to hook up at a professional conference ever again. ‘Biggest name in hormone studies,’ what was she thinking?

“We’re definitely working with him in the future, by the way.”

“Send me the dates, I’ll get the appropriate sick notes.”

Enjolras laughs at that, a pure and genuine sound that makes Grantaire’s stomach flip and the grip Enjolras still has on her hand all the more glaring. “I'd like to take you out to dinner.”

“Um.” Grantaire blinks at her. “We can eat now if you’re hungry, I was just joking about the pape—”

“No, I mean you and I. This evening. Together.”

“Yeah, no, I got that, but like. Why?”

“I would like to spend more time with you.”

“We literally just did three days together.” Four if they count Thursday’s Extracurriculars, which Grantaire does Not.

“And I enjoyed it.”

“Did you though?”

Their hands still swing loosely between them as Enjolras huffs. “If this is your way of letting me down gently I'd really like to file a complaint with management.”

“Look, I'm not the one saying ‘let me down’ like this is some kind of—” She frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “I mean, this isn't…is it?”

“If you're looking for me to deny that I’m asking you out, I am afraid that you will be sorely disappointed.” There's an unfairly attractive confidence in the way Enjolras says it that very inconveniently reminds Grantaire of the presumably still-present Battle Armor from this morning. “So? May I?”

Black Lace is still lapsing her brain. “Um. Yes? Yes. That’s—yes, you may.” 

There’s that smile, the real one that makes all of Enjolras’s feigned ones pale in comparison. Her hand squeezes Grantaire’s before she straightens. “I should tell you now, though: I do have two Master’s and am highly prone to commi—”

“That’s all right,” Grantaire says entirely too quickly. Apparently something about this is amusing to Enjolras. “You got something to share, Miss Enjolras?”

Lips still pressed tightly together, Enjolras shakes her head. “Not a single thing.”

“Good. Now let’s get going, I have a date this evening that I cannot afford to be late to.”

“Oh dear,” Enjolras frets through a shiteating grin, tugging Grantaire closer to her. “‘Jeremy’ will be heartbroken.”

“Oh my God, shut up about Jeremy,” Grantaire laughs, pushing the other woman back and finally freeing her hand to go to the driver’s side. “Get in the car. Let’s see if we can find some place with ice for your knuckles before we start back.”

Psyche can eat her ass.

**Author's Note:**

> [For anyone unfamiliar with the tale of Eros/Cupid and Psyche.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cupid_and_Psyche)
> 
> I know Sterculius is Roman, but the Greeks didn't have a dedicated fecal deity, so Grantaire had to be flexible.
> 
> The LMFAO song Grantaire refers to on the Saturday is "Shots." Because her dinner Thursday was primarily alcohol.
> 
> [Here's the source](https://www.contagionlive.com/news/risk-of-hiv-aids-among-transgender-individuals-remains-high-as-testing-rates-are-still-low-public-health-watch) Enjolras cites regarding HIV statistics in the US.
> 
> After the end notes speaker was asked to leave, the person at reception did actually reach out to Enjolras to let her know they had a spare room available. Enjolras quietly declined.
> 
> Also, Almond-Gallery did some [lovely art](https://almond-gallery.tumblr.com/post/610896196263919616/i-was-reading-this-fic-and-having-a-lot-of) of Enjolras and Grantaire that is just spectacular and dead-on (especially Enjolras oh my God), definitely check it out!! [ThePiecesOfCait did too](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/617201076241874944/deciding-how-to-wake-the-resting-revolutionary-is), and it is. So perfect.
> 
> If you enjoyed this or have any questions, please let me know down below or at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com). :D


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